The Devil wears Prada

I love my Prada handbag.

I love the bright turquoise, blue colour.

I love the chic lines, gold links and poppers.

I love the pretty, colourful lining.

I love the smell of the leather.

I love the way it makes me feel when I use it.

I love the memory of being given it, the surprise and excitement of the big white bag with black writing.

I love how I put it on my Christmas wish list as a joke, alongside the pyjamas and slippers that would have made me just as happy.

I love the fact that my husband had seen me admiring them in Galleries Lafayette.

I love that every time I use it, I am reminded of that beautiful, romantic anniversary trip to Paris.

I love that it is so precious that it is kept safe in its dust bag on the top shelf, brought out for special occasions.

I love that it was given in love and with love and that it reminds me of that love.


Recently, a comment left me feeling guilty, even bad for owning one.  For having anything material and for having the life and experiences that I am grateful daily for.


A Prada handbag is a luxury, a material object.  As are many things.

It is also a symbol and reflection of love, although I didn’t need it to feel loved.

It is also a symbol and reflection of hardwork, long hours, commitment to both career and family life, although I didn’t need it to prove that.


I love my Prada handbag.  I am guilt free.  I am no Prada wearing Devil.  I am a good person.






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